


Exile

by Duskglass



Category: Jak and Daxter
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-13
Updated: 2017-04-13
Packaged: 2018-03-22 04:41:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3715405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Duskglass/pseuds/Duskglass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Down on his luck after a temporary job gone badly, Sig finds something unexpected in the desert.<br/><span class="small">(takes place about 20 years before Jak II/3)</span></p>
            </blockquote>





	Exile

**Author's Note:**

> this was originally posted in April 2015; two years later I've decided to fix it up!

Sig shaded his eyes and looked out across the dusty landscape that surrounded him, searching for any sign of other vehicles on the horizon, but only the wind disturbed the sandy dunes. His cousins had always insisted that blood-family were the only people you could really trust-- he'd wanted to prove them wrong, prove he could make it on his own, but after something like this it was hard not to think that perhaps they'd been right after all.  
  
A couple days before, he'd taken a job with a group of salvagers who needed extra fighters for their next expedition. It should have been a routine mission, but they had managed to run straight through a metalhead nest-- the other vehicles had scattered at the first sign of trouble, taking nearly all of the loot with them and leaving Sig and the other hired gunner to fend for themselves.  
  
Sig and his car had come out of the fight with only a few scratches, but the other mercenary hadn't fared nearly so well, leading Sig to suspect that the man's skills weren't what he'd boasted back at the trading outpost. It had taken some fancy driving and more than a few lucky shots for Sig to lose the metalheads chasing him, not an easy feat to pull off without any backup; he wasn't about to risk another trip through the nest to scrape up whatever was left of the dead mercenary, and had proceeded to the rendezvous point alone.  
  
He had been waiting a few hours now, and still no sign of the others-- with the sun nearing its zenith, anyone with sense would have found cover to wait out the hottest part of the day, but the fact that they hadn't shown up already wasn't a good sign. Sig hadn't worked with any of this group before; it was possible they had decided to head straight for the next trading post, either assuming he was dead or in a deliberate attempt to cut him out of his share... or perhaps the metalheads had caught up to them and he was waiting on a bunch of corpses.  
  
Either way, they weren't likely to show up before nightfall. He would give them until morning just in case, and then--  
  
The sound of something shuffling through the sand brought him abruptly back to the present. When he scanned the desert again, he glimpsed a flicker of movement beyond the large boulders at the base of the cliffs. Something was alive down there, skirting along the rocky outcrops to take advantage of any scant sliver of shade they offered. It looked human based on what Sig could make out through the heat haze, though that didn't always count for much out here; some of the marauder clans were as ruthless and bloodthirsty as any metalhead.  
  
Either way, Sig wasn't about to take any chances. He snatched up his rifle, dropping down to the narrow footpath that wound between the rocks and quietly making his way to the base of the ridge. Despite his height and his preference for heavy armour, he could move swiftly and silently when necessary-- he got close enough that he could hear the stumbling footsteps on the other side of a large standing stone, then jumped out and took careful aim in one fluid motion.  
  
And then he froze, his finger curled tight around the trigger.  
  
Of all the strange things one might expect to find wandering the desert, a Havenite exile had to be pretty low on the list... but there was no mistaking the cut of the man's clothes, even torn and stained as they were. His skin was blistered from overexposure to the dry heat and harsh desert sun, and he had an impressive collection of scrapes and bruises across his face and arms, but it was something about his eyes that stopped Sig from reflexively shooting him where he stood-- the man made no attempt to attack or even move out of the line of fire, simply glared balefully at the big wastelander before him. Those eyes seemed to dare Sig to try it, seemed to say _you wouldn't be the first... or the last_.  
  
Sig uncurled his finger, resting it against the trigger guard instead. 'You look nearly done in, city boy.'  
  
'Are you planning to finish the job?' The exile's voice was a hoarse croak, barely louder than a whisper; he winced slightly as his lips cracked, but his eyes didn't waver from Sig's face, didn't lose their strange cold fire.  
  
'...Nah, you don't look ready to die just yet.'  
  
The man snorted and raised an eyebrow. 'You say that like I was given a choice in the matter.'  
  
Sig hesitated briefly, then lowered his gun slightly and nodded back over his shoulder at the tumbled rocks behind him. 'Well, there's an oasis just back there, if you're lookin' for a second chance.' And with that, he turned and started walking in the direction he'd indicated-- his instincts screamed against turning his back on a stranger, but he doubted the man had the energy to try anything and was reasonably confident in his ability to overpower a single half-dead Havenite.  
  
After a few seconds, he heard the shuffling footsteps resume, now trailing after him. He kept his eyes forward all the way up the path, not wanting to seem too interested... though it was difficult not to be a little curious, considering that there were far more ideal spots for Haven to dump its undesirables-- it was beyond unusual to find an exile wandering alone this deep in the wasteland, and unlikely that the man could have made it so far on his own.  
  
They rounded a tight bend in the path, the oasis coming into view-- it was nestled in a narrow valley between two sharp ridges, a sliver of land sheltered from much of the desert's harshness. At this spot, a small stream that trickled down from the mountains to the north collected in a shallow pool before continuing down the narrow canyon in what was little more than a strip of mud, but it was enough for the clusters of cactus and scrubby desert grass that had sprung up all along the valley, and the single gnarled tree that had taken root at the water's edge.  
  
The exile's footsteps quickened at the first sound of running water; he stumbled past Sig and dropped to his knees beside the pool, drinking from cupped hands that shook with exhaustion and relief. Most of the water spilled between his fingers; he dipped them back again and again while Sig waited near the footpath, watching him quietly. The exile looked as though he hadn't slept properly in days; his eyes had dark circles under them and his skin was ashen beneath the sunburn, yet there was a straightness to the man's spine even in his current state, as though in stubborn defiance of his current situation.  
  
He finished drinking his fill, quietly collecting himself before finally looking back up at Sig. 'I am... grateful for your aid,' he said softly, a faint note of confusion in his voice; he regarded Sig as though he half expected the wastelander to immediately demand something in return. 'Why did you bring me here?'  
  
'Leaving you for the desert to finish off woulda been a helluva lot worse than just shooting you.' Sig leaned against the cliff, though he kept one hand firmly on his gun. 'I don't believe in doing things halfway.'  
  
The exile still didn't look convinced. 'If that's the case... shooting me would have been a lot less trouble.'  
  
Sig paused, frowning-- he supposed this was true, but he didn't know how to explain the split-second judgement that had moved him to spare the man's life, especially when most wastelanders would have taken the shot and never thought twice about it. He shrugged and looked away. 'Maybe I just don't like cowards-- it ain't right, the way folk from the Big Smoke toss their undesirables out here for the desert to finish off. Seems to me you got no business tryin' to kill someone if you ain't got the guts to look 'em in the eyes while you do it.'  
  
'...What makes you think they didn't?' the exile asked quietly. Sig blinked at him, surprised by this response; the man snorted dirisively and shook his head, but his eyes were dead serious when he continued. 'Given the chance, my enemies would have loved to put one between my eyes.' He punctuated this statement by making a gun gesture with his hand and tapping his fingers against his forehead.  
  
Sig raised an eyebrow. 'Didn't do a very good job of it, did they?'  
  
One corner of the exile's mouth twitched into something that almost resembled a smile. 'I'm still surprised he didn't check to make sure... Unusually sloppy of him.'  
  
Sig propped his rifle against the rocks beside him-- still within easy reach, of course, but the gesture was clearly intended to be nonthreatening. '...You got a name, cherry?'  
  
The exile's hands froze in the process of lifting his thick tightly-curled hair off the back of his neck. He looked up at Sig. 'What does it matter? Out here, I am no one.'  
  
He couldn't have known, growing up inside Haven's walls, but this was one of the unspoken laws of the wasteland: a person's past was their own business. If the exile didn't care to reveal anything about himself, even something as simple as a name, Sig wasn't about to press him. 'Suit yourself, city boy,' Sig replied with a shrug. Both fell quiet after that, Sig watching as the man continued his attempts to do something about his hair-- it was a rich mossy green that reminded Sig of the lush forests he'd seen on trading expeditions to distant lands, the sort of colour that looked deeply out of place in the desert. 'Mine's Sig,' he offered a few minutes later.  
  
The exile glanced up again, giving Sig a small nod in acknowledgement. Shortly after this, he gave up any hope of taming his hair, and instead settled for splashing a little water over his head. He took another mouthful and sat back against the tree, letting the cool liquid wash over his tongue. His eyes fluttered closed, though he was still alert, listening-- he stirred slightly when Sig climbed back up the rocks to look around again, but didn't get up; if he wondered what Sig was waiting for, he didn't ask.  
  
Sig didn't really expect to see anything approaching, but wastelanders who let their guard down didn't last long-- you never knew when you might find someone crazy or desperate enough to brave the desert's worst conditions. It was only after confirming that the surrounding lands were as deserted as he'd anticipated that Sig returned to the clearing and chose a spot in the shade of the cliffs and sat down.  
  
The exile still hadn't moved from beneath the tree, but when Sig glanced over he noticed that the man was watching him. There was some vaguely unsettling quality to those eyes-- perhaps nothing more than their unusual colour, but whatever it was had a chilling effect that was strangely at odds with the dry heat of the desert afternoon.  
  
'You're pretty far from Haven,' he commented, his tone falsely casual in an attempt to mask his discomfort. 'Ain't many exiles in these parts... Guess you got lost, or somethin'?'  
  
The man twitched, apparently startled at being addressed, then he sat a little straighter. 'I suppose, in a manner of speaking...' He snorted softly. 'I wonder if perhaps I was lost long before they threw me out, and simply too big a fool to see it...'  
  
Sig raised an eyebrow and clarified, 'If you wanted to get back, you're headed the wrong way.'  
  
'...Ah.' The exile picked at a frayed hole in his sleeve. 'It is not my intention to return to Haven. I am no longer welcome there.'  
  
'Never stopped any of the other exiles I met,' Sig pointed out. 'Most of 'em talk of nothin' else.'  
  
'Most exiles might stand a chance of going unnoticed in a city of Haven's size,' the man replied dryly. 'I would not be so fortunate.'  
  
Sig regarded him for a moment, wondering what made him so sure-- while his appearance was distinctive, there were ways around that if he was determined enough-- but Sig decided it wasn't his business and let the subject drop. 'So you just decided to wander out here instead?'  
  
The man shrugged. 'It seemed a better option than the alternatives.' He idly rubbed the bridge of his nose and immediately winced as his fingers met sunburnt skin. He glanced back up at Sig. '...You seem rather skeptical, though.'  
  
'Ain't many city folk that can survive out here. Livin' inside the walls makes 'em soft.'  
  
The exile huffed out a breath; it sounded almost like a laugh. He leaned against the tree again, making no attempt to deny Sig's words; in the silence that followed, the wastelander was left to wonder whether the exile had directed the dirisive noise at himself or his former home as a whole... or perhaps both.  
  
As the afternoon wore on, Sig couldn't help but think of the soft-spoken words that managed to draw attention to his deepest doubts, of the unspoken questions he had seen reflected back at him in those unusual eyes-- _what will you do now? and if I'm such a lost cause, why bother helping at all_? Sig didn't know how to answer, couldn't even make sense of his own actions. Maybe he should have just taken the shot after all, given the exile a quick and easy death... but he suspected those eyes would have haunted him either way.  
  
Of course, he owed nothing to this stranger, but after sparing the man's life he couldn't help but feel somewhat responsible. Leaving someone stranded at an oasis in the middle of nowhere wasn't much better than letting them die of dehydration; an unarmed and defenseless exile would be easy pickings for the next wastelander group or wandering beast to pass through, and if a predator didn't get him, starvation or exposure would surely finish him off...  
  
But Sig was barely scraping by as it was, and things would only get rougher if his most recent job turned out to be a complete loss-- which was looking very likely. He couldn't afford a charity case, especially not some soft city boy, a Havenite who would need his hand held through the simplest of tasks.  
  
The sun sank lower in the sky, shadows creeping up the tall stone walls that sheltered the little oasis. Maybe Sig could offer the man a ride to the nearest trading post; it would cost Sig nothing to do so when he was headed that way already, and that would at least give the exile some options. He'd clearly had enough sense to make it this far, after all; if he kept his wits about him he should be able to eke out some sort of living... or maybe that was just what Sig wanted to believe. Having a conscience wasn't an easy thing for a wastelander to live with...  
  
Dusk had begun to settle over the desert in earnest when Sig heard a faint metallic scritching sound overhead-- he snatched up his rifle and fired; the small metalhead landed with a dull thump on the sand, its skull gem yielding a faint popping noise as it came loose. Sig rose to a crouch and scanned the clearing, alert for any sign of movement; Stingers were among the smallest and weakest metalheads but they almost never struck alone, relying on greater numbers to overwhelm their victims. There were bound to be at least a few others nearby.  
  
'Look alive, city boy, we got comp--'  
  
He didn't get a chance to finish; the rest of the Stingers had erupted from their hiding places among the rocks and he was kept busy shooting, though they weren't numerous enough to cause him much trouble-- Sig crushed the last under his boot, a short-lived grin playing across his face before a much larger metalhead dropped from the cliffs overhead, crashing down on top of him and knocking the rifle out of his hands.  
  
Sig kicked at the metalhead but sharp claws dug into his leg, twisting deep into the muscle to ensure that he wouldn't be able to run. He blocked the swipe at his face and throat just in time; the metalhead's claws struck sparks from his bracer as they raked across his arm. The creature was heavy, significantly bigger than the average human-sized Grunt; in his current position he stood little chance of throwing it off. And as if that wasn't bad enough, a second nearly identical metalhead thumped to the ground nearby, drawn to the scent of fresh blood.  
  
Neither of them seemed to have noticed the exile-- Sig suspected the man was long gone by now.  
  
Not that he had time to worry about anyone other than himself at the moment; the metalhead was pressing down on him, using its superior leverage and sheer weight to force his arms back, leaving his face exposed, vulnerable-- but before it could strike again, something rammed into its side, knocking it off of him. Sig scrambled out of the way, pausing to stare in disbelief as the ragged green-haired man and the big metalhead tumbled to the ground, locked in a deadly wrestling match.  
  
The metalhead let out a horrible screech, its tail lashing as it tried to buck the man off its back; it appeared more annoyed than injured, quickly overcoming its surprise at the unexpected attack. The exile seemed to realise he wouldn't stand a chance if the creature dislodged him, gripping the cables at the back of its neck and quickly pulling himself up onto its shoulders. The sharp edges of the metalhead's exoskeleton bit into his hands as he dug his fingers into a deep groove at the back of its skull; he grit his teeth against the pain and gave the skull-plate a sharp wrench. His hands slipped a little on the first try but the second produced a sickening snap that made the skull gem pop loose-- the exile threw himself free as the metalhead crumpled, its eyes already dark and lifeless.  
  
He hit the ground rolling, rose to a crouch facing the other big metalhead. Apparently cautious after watching its comrade fall, it didn't strike immediately, circling the man instead-- he started moving as well, maintaining the distance between them and keeping his centre lowered. If the fresh scrapes on his hands and arms bothered him at all he didn't show it, his footsteps swift and confident and his attention unwavering.  
  
It was around then that Sig realised the exile wasn't just some crazy hotheaded type, throwing himself into the fight on a foolish whim-- the man had clearly had some sort of combat experience. Unusual for a Havenite, though it lent some credibility to his claim that he had survived an earnest attempt on his life. Sig tore his gaze from the fight for a second to scan the clearing, but his rifle was beyond his reach and he was in no shape to move; he could do nothing but press his hands over the gashes in his leg to slow the bleeding as he watched.  
  
The exile couldn't get in close without putting himself in range of the metalhead's claws, and he lacked the advantage he'd gained with the first one when he took it by surprise-- he couldn't spare even a quick glance to check on Sig or look for a weapon; the metalhead was clearly waiting, prepared to strike the moment his concentration faltered. The creature seemed to recognise its advantage, pressing forward and forcing him back, one step at a time. He would have to think of something, had to act before it could corner him against one of the cliffs--  
  
But before he could come up with a plan, he stumbled on a rock hidden in a tuft of grass; the metalhead took advantage of his lost balance and launched itself at him before he could recover.   
  
He instinctively raised his arms to protect his face; the claws raked across his right forearm instead. His breath hissed between his teeth at the pain, but before the metalhead could disentangle its claws or regain its balance he snapped a foot out, catching it under the jaw-- he followed this with a swift punch, his left fist connecting solidly with one of its luminous yellow eyes. The metalhead lashed out wildly; he easily ducked under the swipe and threw his weight against the creature, and they tumbled to the ground in a tangle of limbs. His bloodied fingers scrabbled in the sand and he snatched up a fist-sized rock, bringing it down hard on the skull gem and eliciting a howl of pain.  
  
The metalhead's hind legs caught him in the ribs and he was thrown hard against the cliff; he slid back to the ground and blinked spots from his eyes but then he glimpsed Sig's rifle just within reach-- he snatched it up, still half-dazed from the last impact; the metalhead was rushing him again and there was no time to find the trigger or even turn it the right way around-- he swung its weighted butt into the metalhead's side as it reared up to strike, then brought it down on the top of the creature's head as it fell, cracking the skull gem. A final strike popped the damaged gem loose, killing the metalhead instantly.  
  
Silence fell over the oasis. He slowly began to rise, the skull gems that littered the ground casting a soft glow over his face, but he staggered a little and seemed to decide sitting down was a better idea. Neither man moved for a moment, until the exile's gaze flicked up to meet Sig's. 'Is it bad?' he asked softly, indicating the leg.  
  
'Should be fine, soon as I get some salve and bandages on it.' He was still watching the exile's face in disbelief. '...But damn, cherry, those were some nasty metalheads-- guess you ain't so bad for a city boy after all.' He pulled himself into a more comfortable sitting position, grinning as the shorter man raised an eyebrow at him. 'Can't say I know many wastelanders who got the guts to tackle one of those bad boys unarmed.'  
  
The exile eyed his fingers, striped with raw welts. 'I would not advise repeating it,' he replied dryly, shrugging as he looked back up at Sig. 'But I didn't have much of a choice.'  
  
Sig blinked, his grin fading into a more solemn look. 'You coulda run, got out while they was distracted.'  
  
The man looked startled at this suggestion; it was several seconds before he finally responded. 'That option didn't occur to me.'   
  
'Guess not,' Sig murmured. It was hard not to be impressed by that. He finished tying a strip of fabric around his leg and started to get up, wincing as the damaged muscles pulled. 'Gotta get the med kit,' he grunted in reply to the man's questioning look.  
  
The exile stood as well; he moved closer and extended his left arm to Sig, despite the fact that the gashes on his other arm still bled sluggishly. Sig gripped the offered arm and leaned on the shorter man, lips pressed into a thin line. The exile shifted his weight a little, looking around the clearing again. 'Where now?'  
  
Sig nodded towards a cleft in the stone walls, a narrow trail leading to where he'd left his car. The exile kept pace with him as they walked, acting as a crutch until they rounded a corner and came upon the car, at which point Sig transferred his grip to the vehicle's frame instead. He nodded his thanks before retrieving the med kit and a small lamp from under the seat, then lowered himself back to the ground to tend his wound.  
  
The exile sat next to him and watched quietly for a moment, but when Sig pulled out a jar of salve infused with green eco, he brushed his fingertips against the wastelander's arm. 'Let me help.'  
  
Sig raised an eyebrow, but after a couple seconds he surrendered the eco salve to his new companion-- he had little reason not to trust a man who had just taken on two metalheads nearly barehanded in an effort to help him. The exile applied a generous amount of salve with a clean swab, his face screwed up in concentration; sparks of green eco jumped free of the gel, spiralling between his hands before sinking back into the wound. Cool relief spread through the muscle as the beginnings of an infection were burned away, and the torn flesh began to knit itself back together.  
  
The sensation was more than a little unsettling; Sig's family had rarely had access to trained healers or the resources to afford them, and he'd never experienced anything quite like this before. He struggled to hold still, not wanting to make the task more difficult. '...You a channeler?' he said, a faint note of surprise in his voice.  
  
'Mm.' The man scowled at the wound a little longer, watching as it scabbed over, then he looked up and gave Sig a wry smile. 'A rather poor one, I'm afraid, but it's still better than letting the eco work on its own-- you shouldn't have to worry about this opening up again, though I'd still advise bandaging it.'  
  
He tried to return the jar of salve to Sig, but the wastelander shook his head. 'No, you take care of yourself too-- I owe you bigtime, city boy.'  
  
The exile shrugged and silently accepted the offer, quickly swabbing some disinfectant over the gashes on his arm before he started applying the eco salve. '...Damas,' he said almost as an afterthought, as green light flared up and cast a strange spectral glow over his face.  
  
Sig glanced up from the bandage he was winding around his leg. 'Sorry?'  
  
'My name. It's Damas.' A few stray sparks targeted the abrasions on his fingers and the worst of his older scrapes and sunburns, skittering over his face and arms like fireflies before melting into his skin.  
  
'Huh.' Sig paused. 'Ya know, that sounds sorta familiar...'  
  
'Formerly King of Haven City,' Damas added blandly. 'Currently no one of note.' He passed the jar back to Sig; this time the wastelander accepted it.  
  
'How the hell does a Havenite king get--' Sig broke off, shaking his head as he tucked the salve back into his med kit. '...Sorry, I know it ain't my place to ask.'  
  
Damas snorted and shook his head. 'You wouldn't be the first to think I'm a poor fit for the part-- that's more or less why they wanted me out of the way.'  
  
'You got it all wrong,' Sig responded quietly. 'I mean, you sure ain't what I woulda pictured Haven's ruler to be like, but... I'd say you're just the sorta man who'd be _most_ worth following.'  
  
Damas scowled. ' _Don't_ \--' He exhaled sharply and shook his head. 'I'm _done_ with being a king. I don't want any more followers.'  
  
Sig shrugged and leaned back against the rocks, looking up at the starry sky. 'What about a friend, then?' Damas just stared at him, a strange expression in his violet eyes; Sig answered him with a smile. 'What-- ain't you ever had a friend before?'  
  
'...Not many,' said Damas quietly; something about his tone was oddly sobering, and Sig sat a little straighter, watching Damas slowly wind a bandage around his forearm. 'Most people I knew... they only cared about using my status to their advantage. Had I not been an Heir, they would have gladly ignored me.' He paused to tie off the bandage on his arm, using his teeth to tighten the knot. 'When they found that I was no longer necessary... they no longer cared to pretend loyalty. I knew the Council hated me, but...' He shook his head, let out a bitter almost-laugh. 'I was a fool, to think them above this treachery.'  
  
Sig ran fingers through his hair, unable to take his eyes off the exile, torn between disbelief and awe. 'But even after all that... you'd still risk your life for a stranger.'  
  
Damas looked back at Sig, though he seemed to be seeing something else, something forever beyond his reach. 'What else _could_ I do?' he asked very quietly, his voice cracking; it dropped to a whisper as he continued, pressing a hand over his face. 'My life is already forfeit-- if I'd failed, at least I would have died for something. What else is it good for?'  
  
A heavy silence stretched between them, lasting only a few seconds that felt like a small eternity. Sig reached out slowly, gripping Damas's uninjured arm; Damas twitched at the contact but didn't try to pull away, meeting Sig's eyes again. Sig gave the arm a squeeze, smiling a little sadly. '...Guess we'll have to stick together and find out, won't we?'  
  
Damas blinked slowly at him. 'You want me to come with you?' One of his eyebrows quirked up. '...Even though Haven has 'made me soft'?'   
  
Sig shook his head. 'Ain't nothin' soft about you.' His fingers brushed over the bandage on his leg. 'Haven mighta thrown you out, and they're fools for doin' it. The wasteland'll take you-- we know real strength when we see it.'  
  
'You would call it strength?' There was a touch of humour to his eyes now, softening them a little. 'I thought I was simply too thick-skulled to know when to give up.'  
  
Sig laughed at this. 'Well, surviving out here sometimes takes a little of both.' He let go of Damas's arm, shifting to sit beside him. '...Maybe I'll clean up those two fine metalhead skulls and wear 'em every day, so you never forget.'  
  
Damas averted his gaze, pushing his hair back from his forehead. 'Don't. I swear I'll punch you in the face.'  
  
Sig doubted the threat was serious, but he shrugged and let the subject drop anyway; a moment later he pulled something from one of the leather pouches on his belt. 'Oh, hey, you eaten anything lately?'  
  
Damas folded his arms over his stomach and slouched against the rocks. 'No,' he replied, his gaze straying wistfully to the cloth-wrapped bundle in Sig's hands.  
  
'It ain't much, but I got some jerky left.' Sig tugged the fabric open, revealing several strips of dried meat, which he offered to Damas. He snorted loudly as Haven's former king grabbed one of the pieces and unceremoniously crammed the whole thing into his mouth. 'Take it easy, cherry-- be pretty embarassing if you choked after everything you been through.'  
  
Damas shot him a glare and grumbled something completely unintelligible around his mouthful.  
  
Sig took one piece for himself, then passed the rest to Damas and stood up. 'Have as much as you want-- I'll take first watch, and we can leave a couple hours past midnight. Just gotta grab my gun real quick.'  
  
Still busy chewing, Damas just nodded; Sig left him beside the car and started back towards the oasis. His leg was still stiff from the injury, but it hardly hurt and no longer interfered with his ability to walk on his own. Damas had downplayed his channeling ability, but Sig knew he would have been much worse off without it.  
  
Night had fallen properly by now, though Sig could see well enough by moonlight and the faint glow of the skull gems that still littered the ground. He picked up his rifle, giving it a quick check to make sure it hadn't been damaged in the fight, and then his gaze fell on the corpse of the large metalhead nearby. A small smile flicked across his face, and he knelt to pull the skull-plate loose.  
  
It would be worth it, even if Damas _did_ punch him in the face.

**Author's Note:**

> Damas is almost 20 in this; Sig is 18ish (I don't count the racing-profile ages as canon). I've always imagined that Damas must have been a very young and inexperienced ruler who came to power suddenly and then got deposed within a couple years, leaving Praxis in power for around two decades, but that's a story for another time!


End file.
